


Deceptions

by Glassdarkly



Series: Second Front [6]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Alternate Canon, Angst, Drama, Gen, M/M, Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2013-12-09
Packaged: 2018-01-04 04:28:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1076535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glassdarkly/pseuds/Glassdarkly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things go from bad to worse as Giles finds himself alone and cut off from his charges. Meanwhile, the Watchers' Council, under Quentin Travers' leadership, is straying into very dubious territory.</p>
<p>The sixth story in the Second Front series, an alternate canon BtVS season 7. Set around the time of <i>Help/Selfless</i>.</p>
<p>First posted to Livejournal in February 2012.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deceptions

Giles unrolled another scroll. A cloud of dust wafted up from the desiccated parchment and set him coughing. At once, a sea of disapproving faces turned in his direction, and at the far end of the library Radley raised his bony finger to his lips. 

"Shush!"

"Sorry," Giles croaked. Taking a handkerchief out of his pocket, he tried to stifle his coughs in its folds, but the attempt proved fruitless. 

"Excuse me." Getting hurriedly to his feet, Giles walked the length of the library, past the rows of wooden bookshelves. Most were crammed end to end with books, but a few had large gaps in them where books had been removed, leaving them with an odd, broken-toothed appearance. He went past the antique polished oak librarian's counter and out into the corridor. As he passed Radley in his ridiculous bowtie, the man gave him another disapproving look, as if he were coughing on purpose. 

Bloody cheek, really, Giles thought. After all, keeping the books in good condition was part of Radley's job. Someone should have words with him. 

There was a gents' loo just down the corridor, with an old-fashioned water fountain in the hallway just outside it. Giles bent his head to the feeble jet and swallowed a few cold mouthfuls, coughed again, then swallowed a couple more. When he pushed open the frosted glass door to the gents and went inside, the room was empty save for the overpowering smell of bleach drifting out of the vacant stalls. 

Giles breathed a sigh of relief. It was good to be away from prying eyes, even if only for five minutes. 

He filled one of the basins with warm water and washed his face and hands. All this subterfuge was making him feel dirty. 

Regarding his reflection sternly in the mirror above the basin, Giles reminded himself that, yes, what he'd been forced to do the night before last had been very unpleasant, but he'd had no choice, and it wasn't as if he could have acquired the information any other way, was it?

*

"Any progress?"

Giles tried to make his voice authoritative and friendly at the same time. Even so, De Souza yelped and leapt to his feet, knocking his chair over with a loud metal screech. 

"Mr Giles – God, you scared me!"

"I do beg your pardon." Giles stepped around the fallen chair and peered at Spike's bound body in what he hoped was a dispassionate way. "How's the vampire doing?"

But De Souza had recovered from his initial fright. "You're not supposed to be here, he protested. "No one is supposed to be here."

"Oh?" Giles looked pointedly at Norah. "I can quite see why. I do hope you're keeping an eye on her, by the way. She looks a little peaky." 

De Souza had been reaching for a two-way radio lying on the little table next to the mysterious box, but at Giles's words he glanced in Norah's direction. "Oh God!" 

Hurrying around the metal trolley on which Spike lay, almost tripping over a wheel as he went, he set about removing the drip from Norah's arm as quickly as he could. 

"It's a good thing you said that," he muttered, with his back to Giles. "Taken more than I meant to. Bloody crossword."

Giles glared at the back of De Souza's neck, where the brown skin was flushed dark with embarrassment. "Yes, well. Plenty of bed rest and nourishing food and she'll be right as rain, no doubt."

"Nourishing food from _our_ canteen?" De Souza was applying cotton wool and sticking plaster to Norah's elbow. "That's a laugh."

Giles took a silent pace forward, snatched the two-way radio off the table and hid it behind his back. When De Souza turned around again, he noticed it was missing at once.

De Souza's eyes narrowed. "I'm warning you, Griffiths will be back soon. And if I don't call in shortly, he'll be back even sooner."

Giles kept his expression bland. "No need for this hostility. All I want is a little information."

De Souza shook his head. "I'm not telling you anything."

"Of course," Giles mused, "some things hardly need explaining. I know Quentin wants the vampire compos mentis as soon as possible, hence the transfusion of Slayer blood. But I have to say I find his methods rather unconscionable, don't you?"

De Souza glared, but said nothing. 

Giles steeled himself. Blackmail was never pleasant, even in a good cause. "And do you know what else I find unconscionable? Cowardice. Specifically yours."

De Souza blinked. For the first time, he looked genuinely alarmed. "What are you talking about?"

"Why, your treatment of Charles, of course. It's disgraceful, in my opinion." 

De Souza had gone pale now. "I don't know what you mean."

Giles gave him a contemptuous look. "Oh, don't be ridiculous. Charles and I are good friends, and we've been working side by side for the last month. We have no secrets from each other."

De Souza looked more and more uncomfortable. "I don't know what he told you, but…"

"He told me enough," Giles interrupted him, "to make sure that your career is finished should I choose to pass on what I know to Travers. I'm sure you're aware of his opinions on…on certain matters."

De Souza grabbed hold of the table so tightly his knuckles went white. "You utter bastard!"

Giles forced a suitably grim smile onto his face. "I'm afraid so."

There was a long silence. Then, De Souza said, "Please don't say anything to Mr Travers. If my mother finds out…." His voice faltered. "She wouldn't understand."

Giles winced, skewered by ill-timed pity. "That would be…unfortunate."

"I never meant to hurt Charles," De Souza went on. "But I never felt the same way about him as he did about me. Besides, I can't…." His voice trailed off again. "I'm not ready."

"And I've no desire to force the issue," Giles assured him. "But I will if you don't answer my questions."

There was another long silence. Then De Souza's shoulders slumped in defeat. 

At the same time, the walkie-talkie behind Giles's back crackled with static. 

"This is Griffiths calling Doctor De Souza. All well, doctor, over?"

Giles and De Souza exchanged glances. Then De Souza held out his hand and Giles gave him the walkie-talkie.

"This is De Souza. All well, Griffiths. See you in ten minutes, over."

"Very good, sir. Over and out." The walkie-talkie crackled again and went silent. 

De Souza put it down on the table.

"What do you want to know?" 

"Well, for a start -" Giles indicated the little wooden box –"that looks rather intriguing. What purpose does it serve?"

De Souza gave the box a dubious glance. "Magic's not my area of expertise. I'm strictly a clinician. Mr Travers did say that whatever it contains would boost the potency of the Potentials' blood, so I assume it's to speed up the healing process." 

"Ah." Giles frowned. Of course, Spike was in desperate need of as much blood as possible to aid his recovery, but surely Slayer blood was potent enough without pepping it up even further. 

But Travers _had_ said he was in a hurry. 

"It'll take more than one transfusion, though, won't it?" he pursued. "And you said yourself you took too much from this girl for her to be able to donate again any time soon." 

"True," De Souza agreed, "but there's always the other one."

"Other one?" Giles had a feeling he knew which of the girls De Souza meant. 

"Did you hear the mouth on her?" De Souza's voice had acquired an unpleasant sneering note. "What a chav. Poor Lydia. I wouldn't fancy being stuck nannying her."

Giles clenched his fists hard. Travers' influence on De Souza was all too plain.

"So Miss Gieves-Bowen is exempt from this-" he waved a vague hand in Norah's direction –"business, then?"

De Souza nodded. "That's right. Mr Travers says she's to be taken to Upper Slaughter as soon as we can spare the manpower."

"Upper Slaughter?" Giles blinked. "You mean the Watchers' retreat? Why on earth would Travers send her there?"

De Souza looked surprised. 

"It's out of the way, isn't it? Under the radar. That's where we're hiding the Potentials we've been able to extract. Of course, the name's rather ominous, but –well, it _is_ the countryside." 

Giles thought of the Westbury House and grimaced. That had been under the radar too.

"How many?" he asked. 

"What?" De Souza had turned to check the flow of blood from the bag on the stand into Spike's arm. 

"How many Potentials?" Giles clarified. "At Upper Slaughter, I mean?"

De Souza tapped the plastic tube with his finger. "Not sure. About thirty? There's another safe house for the southern hemisphere so I understand, but as Mr Travers hasn't been able to vet those girls in person, it's a more of a backup than anything."

Giles's heart leapt in his chest. It took a supreme effort to keep his voice calm. "Vet them?"

De Souza was adjusting the speed of the blood flow. "For suitability. After all, who knows where this will all end? Our enemy is very determined, and the last thing we need is a repeat of the Lehane disaster."

He turned to Giles and gave him a challenging glare. "You're still enough of a Watcher to understand that surely?"

Disconcerted, Giles found himself nodding in agreement.

"Well, quite. Dreadful business."

De Souza's face acquired a stubborn look, as if daring Giles to contradict him. "Maybe the Bringers will manage to get at her even in prison and dispose of her for us. At least we'll have one Slayer firmly under Council control." 

"No offence to Miss Summers, of course," he added, after a moment. "She may be rather more independent minded than is good for her and-" indicating Spike "-have made some rather odd allies, but she's on the right side." 

He glared at Giles again. "At least, I assume so."

"Well, quite," Giles managed for the third time. Other words failed him. Besides, given the way De Souza was rallying, he had the feeling he'd pushed the man as far as he dared.

Swallowing the nausea in his throat, he made for the door. "I'm sure I don't have to tell you not to repeat any of our conversation. Good night, De Souza."

"You won't say anything to Mr Travers either, will you?" De Souza called after him, the note of uncertainty back in his voice. "About Charles and me?" But Giles didn't reply.

Instead, he accelerated his pace. Things were far worse than his wildest imaginings. He had to find Robson. They needed to get out of here, and quickly.

*

Giles twisted the doorknob. It wouldn't budge. Glancing over his shoulder to check he was still alone, he murmured the words of the unbinding spell again, but the door stayed stubbornly shut. In exasperation, Giles put his shoulder to it, but it was solid. No shifting it that way.

He'd tried to access the annexe on every floor of the building from basement to attics, but it was sealed tight. No way of getting to Robson. 

In the end, Giles retreated to his own room. Taking his mobile out of his jacket pocket, he dialled Robson's number. Unsurprisingly, the call went straight to voicemail. He considered sending Robson a text message, but given what had happened to Norah, it could be read by anyone, and Travers was already suspicious of him. 

His choices were stark. He couldn't get to Robson and the girls, and he couldn't abandon them either, any more than he could abandon Spike. There was only one course of action open to him, and even that depended on De Souza keeping his mouth shut. 

Giles just hoped his acting skills were up to it. 

He got undressed, brushed his teeth, lay down on his hard little bed and tried to compose himself to sleep. Who knew when he would get another chance?

*

He woke with a jerk at a loud rapping on the door what felt like mere moments later.

Fumbling on his glasses, Giles shouted, "Who is it?"

"It's Griffiths, sir."

"Oh?" Giles stumbled out of bed and into his clothes. He looked wildly around the room but there was nothing that could be used as a weapon. A pity, because Griffiths appeared to be in possession of a very hard jaw. 

Opening the door a crack, Giles peered out into the corridor at Griffiths' stoic face. The man had to have been up all night, yet you would never have known it. "Yes? What do you want?"

Griffiths' stone face never cracked. "Mr Travers asked me to wake you, sir. It's gone eleven thirty."

Giles's jaw dropped. "Has it?" He looked at his watch, and sure enough…

He must have been more exhausted than he'd realised, Giles thought. All those nights when his sleep had been broken by Spike, sometimes for pleasant reasons, though latterly for quite the opposite. 

He attempted a smile. "Thank you, Griffiths. Tell Mr Travers I'm grateful he didn't allow me to sleep the day away."

"Sir." Griffiths made a sort of half-salute, turned on his heel and walked smartly off. Giles watched him go. Definite military background. Ex-SAS, probably. Travers drank in the right circles. 

Giles showered in the dankly unpleasant communal washroom along the corridor. He took the time to iron his shirt, tie his tie just so and buff his shoes to a shine with a wet rag. Travers liked his subordinates to look smart. 

The canteen was beginning to fill up with the first lunch sitting when Giles took his tea, toast and newspaper to a table in the corner. He sat where he could observe everyone and they could all see him – in plain sight, nothing to hide; a fellow Watcher. But, given his dubious background and the fact that he outranked most of them, Giles wasn't surprised that no one asked to share his table.

He sat up a little straighter when Annabelle, shepherded by Lydia Chalmers, entered the room. But when the girl's eyes found his face, he looked away quickly. The brief glimpse he'd had was enough to tell him that she was scared stiff, and he couldn't afford to let her think he was someone to whom she could appeal for help. 

Instead, he buried his nose in the newspaper – the latest test match appeared to have been quite a thriller – and ignored everyone, until at last a shadow fell over the page. 

"You look better today, Rupert," Travers said. "You must have needed the sleep – and not surprising after your little jaunt in the small hours."

So De Souza had called his bluff. Not that Giles had ever had any intention of making good on his threats, but, he wondered, had he really been such an unconvincing blackmailer?

Giles closed his newspaper and folded it neatly. "Yes, not quite what I was expecting to find, I have to say, Quentin. But all very interesting."

Travers' eyes narrowed. "I'm glad you thought so. Shall we continue this discussion in my office?"

Giles rose to his feet at once. "If you wish." He made a gesture for Travers to precede him. "After you, Quentin."

Travers frowned, but he went. As Giles followed him across the crowded canteen, he was very aware of every eye in the room on him, but he kept his gaze straight ahead and didn't look at anyone. Even so, Annabelle's disappointment in him was almost palpable.

*

The sound of Travers' office door closing had an ominous finality to it, but Giles was careful not to show his disquiet. Instead, he sat in the indicated chair and gazed at Travers expectantly.

Travers had opened a gold fountain pen and was writing something on his desk jotter. There was a lengthy silence during which, Giles supposed, he was meant to stew in terror. Then, abruptly, Travers set the pen down and looked up.

"Roger Wyndam-Pryce thinks you can't be trusted."

Giles smiled tightly. "I can imagine. But then poor old Roger doesn't trust anyone, does he?"

"You're right, of course," Travers conceded.

"And," Giles went on, straight-faced, "let's not forget that he's an embittered old windbag."

Travers laughed out loud before he could stop himself, then frowned and coughed to cover it. "Roger Wyndam-Pryce has been a Watcher for almost fifty years. He's a mainstay of this organisation."

Giles kept his face neutral. "He's not the head of the Council, though, Quentin. You are."

Travers looked pleased despite himself. "True. However, I do respect his opinion. That being the case, I would be grateful, Rupert, if you could explain to me what you were doing cross-questioning young Nigel De Souza last night."

Giles's stomach knotted unpleasantly. 

"I don't know what you mean," he said, playing for time. 

Travers pursed his lips, looking almost disappointed. "Oh come, Rupert. Surely you must have known we would keep the vampire under constant surveillance? We have you caught on camera. No sound, unfortunately, but De Souza was quick enough to own up that he spoke to you - says you told him you had my permission, and given your seniority, he didn't want to offend you. Not a mistake he'll be making again."

Somehow or other Giles kept his relief off his face. "Picture but no sound? That's a little odd, if you don't mind my saying." 

Travers frowned irritably. "Yes, there's something wrong with the system, apparently. Griffiths is looking into it. At any rate, you admit you were there?"

Giles smiled blandly. "Of course. I hope you'll forgive my presumption, Quentin, but in the matter of the vampire, I wasn't sure I'd made my point clearly enough. That is, given this organisation's understandable prejudices against the creatures, I wasn't certain you'd fully taken in how key he may be to the First's plan. I merely wanted to ascertain that all effort was being made to speed up his recovery."

"I see." Travers' face was inscrutable. "And were you satisfied?"

"Oh, I think so," Giles assured him, "though I must say, your methods are…well, let's say, a surprise."

Travers' eyes narrowed again. "Are you saying you don't actively disapprove?"

Giles frowned, trying to look as if he was seriously considering the question. "Well, I admit to some qualms, but De Souza assured me the young lady would not be harmed in the long term, so while I can't say I approve exactly, I understand."

Travers stared at him for a long, considering moment. "Good," he said, at last. "I always knew you for a pragmatist, Rupert." He leaned forward, an earnest expression on his face. "For what it's worth, I have my own qualms, but it's because I do appreciate the vampire's importance that I've chosen to take this step."

"That's good to know,' Giles said. He took a deep breath. In for a penny, in for a pound. "I suspect Robson might not see it in quite the same way, though." 

Travers sat back in his chair. "Robson doesn't need to know. The man's not reliable, Rupert. The sooner you realise that the better." 

Careful, Giles told himself. Don't give in _too_ easily. 

"I've found him very conscientious and hard-working these last few weeks," he protested. "Also, he developed a good rapport with the Potentials in his care, which is not to be sneezed at. I'd actually thought he might make a good Watcher for a Slayer."

Travers' eyes widened. "Steady on, old chap. For a start, I don't think you're the best judge given the way your own Slayer turned out. Secondly, I really don't think men of…of Robson's type are suited to fieldwork."

"Type?" Giles blinked, trying to look innocent. _Come out and say it, you bigoted old goat_. "And where is he, by the way?"

But Travers dodged both questions. "No, I think a limited role in research would be more his forte. Speaking of which, Rupert, we could do with your expertise as a matter of urgency."

"Oh?" Giles gritted his teeth. Travers had talked his way out of that verbal minefield with ease. "In what capacity?"

"It's this trigger you mentioned," Travers said. "The mechanism by which the enemy is controlling the vampire. A song, I think you said it was?"

There was a pause, and Giles realised that Travers was waiting for him to elaborate. What's more, there didn't appear to be any way to avoid the question.

"That's right," he said, reluctantly. "It's _Early One Morning_ , in fact. I'm rather puzzled by it, I must say –not the sort of music I associate with William the Bloody." 

"I would imagine not," Travers agreed. "Perhaps there's a mystical element to it that we're unaware of. It's not unknown for spells to be intricately connected with certain pieces of music. If we knew more about that, and about the piece in question, we might have a better understanding of how the trigger works."

"I don't see…" Giles began, but Travers cut him off. 

"I think your time would be most gainfully employed in the library researching the matter."

They stared at each other. Giles could see Travers almost willing him to refuse. What would happen if he did, he wondered? Would he suddenly find himself on the other side of that locked annexe door?

Once again, it seemed he had no choice. 

"Very well," he said, at last. 

Possibly it was his imagination, but Travers looked disappointed again. _Bastard_ , Giles thought. 

He attempted one more feeble attack. "What about Robson? I could do with his help."

Travers gave him his blandest smile. "I'll find something for him to do, Rupert. You can be sure of that." He picked up his pen. "Now, if you wouldn't mind, I have some urgent paperwork to get through."

Giles forced himself to smile back. "Very well, Quentin. We'll talk again later."

Travers' expression suggested that was doubtful. "Of course."

Giles left the room seething inwardly. Travers had won this round.

*

It was getting dark outside when Giles re-entered the library. The lamps had been switched on, bathing the room in a warm, golden glow. The place had emptied out in Giles's absence – it was suppertime - but Radley was still behind his counter. He peered at Giles over his half-moon glasses and pursed his lips disapprovingly.

" _There_ you are. I was considering sending out a search party."

That proved it, Giles thought. Radley _had_ been ordered to keep an eye on him. Rather insulting really, given the man's known incompetence in the field.

He gave himself a mental shake. Luck - if it _was_ luck - such as he'd had with the faulty surveillance system was unlikely to repeat itself. Travers might have deliberately sent him on a wild goose chase, but with Spike still unconscious and Robson, Norah and Molly incarcerated, or as good as, he couldn't afford to break his cover. 

"I needed some air," he said, to Radley. "Been breathing in rather too much dust the last couple of days. Some of these books are in a terrible state."

Radley glared at him. "Yes, well, Mr Travers has laid off all the non-essential staff, including the cleaners, for the duration. Too dangerous around here for civilians, he says. And I've been too busy."

Giles tried to look sympathetic. "That must be very difficult for you. Perhaps some of the junior Watchers…" 

But Radley cut him off. "Mr Travers says he can't spare them." He looked Giles up and down. "Seems you're the only one he _can_ spare. And speaking of Mr Travers, you've been at it for almost two days now. Have you found anything? He'll want a report."

Giles bit back a sarcastic comment about the sheer irrelevance of the subject Travers had made him research. He opened his mouth to give a neutral response, but then his eye was caught by the state of the little office behind Radley's counter. Books littered the desk, some open, some closed, but with their pages interleaved with markers. And it wasn't just the desk. There were piles of books on the floor too, one of them so high it was in danger of tipping over. 

That explained the big gaps on the library shelves.

"Well?" Radley said, irritably. " _Have_ you found anything?"

Giles took off his glasses and polished them. Never taking his eyes off Radley, he indicated the chaos in the office. "Have you?"

Radley glanced over his shoulder. He went pale.

"No idea what you're talking about ."

Giles put his glasses back on. He smiled pleasantly. "Of course you do. Travers has you following your own line of enquiry, doesn't he?"

Radley looked flustered. "Well, I…that is to say…" He floundered to a halt, staring at Giles helplessly.

Giles shook his head, trying to look more in sorrow than in anger. 

"All I can say is, I hope your search has been rather more fruitful than mine. To be honest with you, Radley, I fear I've been wasting Mr Travers' time."

Radley fiddled with his bowtie. His skin looked distinctly clammy. 

"Oh dear. Nothing in the Mondragon Codex, then?"

Giles leaned his elbows on the counter, affecting a confiding manner.

"Not really. The lyrics of _Early One Morning_ , I've learned, date back to at least 1787, but weren't popularised until the publication of Chappell's song books in the mid-nineteenth century. But really, I could have learned all that in five minutes from the _Encyclopaedia Britannica_. There's nothing mystical about the piece."

Radley licked his lips, still nervous. "That's why I suggested you also consult Barber's _Music As An Aid to Magic_. It might not be the piece that's important but the spell's it's connected with."

Giles kept his face bland but he allowed a hard edge to creep into his voice. "Sorry, but that's nonsense. If we were talking about some hedge wizard here, you might have a point. But we're not. We're talking about the First Evil. It has no need to resort to conjurors' tricks." 

Radley flinched slightly. "That's as may be…"

"Do you, in fact," Giles pressed, "have the least idea what all this research is in aid of? What problem exactly are we trying to solve?"

Radley blinked in surprise. "Well - well, it's that vampire, isn't it? It's been primed as a weapon by our enemy, so I understand. I admit I'm not crystal clear on the actual mechanics of it, but…"

Giles put his glasses back on and subjected Radley to another hard stare. "That's right. Spike has been brainwashed to respond to a pre-programmed trigger – this song, _Early One Morning_. When he hears it, he loses himself - turns bestial."

Radley raised an eyebrow. " _Turns_ bestial? This is a vampire we're talking about."

"A vampire with a soul," Giles reminded him, while warning himself not to press the point home too forcefully. "Which surely has to have some relevance to the matter of the trigger. Really, Radley. Quentin doesn't seem to have briefed you at all."

Radley flailed again. Giles could almost see the little wheels in his brain turning at top speed as he tried to work out how to defend himself without appearing to blame Travers. In the end, he managed, "Well, Mr Travers has been busy. There's a war on, you know."

Giles glared at him. "Yes, and the First is going to open a second front with this vampire if we don't discover how the trigger works and disable it as soon as possible."

"That's not…" Radley began, but then stopped. He went even paler and started to sweat in earnest. 

A shiver ran down Giles's spine. "That's not what?"

Radley pursed his lips. "I can't say."

Giles glanced over his shoulder. He and Radley were the only people left in the library. Grabbing Radley's arm by the elbow he steered him into the office. "How about you try?"

"Let go of me!" Radley tried to shake off Giles's grip, but Giles kept hold of him until he'd closed the office door behind them. The piles of books were even more impressive close-up. 

"Been busy, haven't you?" Giles pushed Radley down into the chair behind the desk and stood over him. "Now tell me, what _does_ Travers have you working on?"

Radley was still pale save for a hectic flush on each cheekbone. "None of your business."

"Oh never mind!" Giles picked up the nearest book – _Mind Control_ by someone with the unlikely name of Lancelyn Reddick. He flicked through the pages, discarded it and picked up another. _Bluff and Double-Bluff_ , which appeared on first glance to be about conventional espionage, but soon proved to have a strongly mystical dimension. 

Giles picked up another book, and then another. 

"Ah," he said, at last. "I think I begin to understand. Travers doesn't want to remove the trigger. He wants to know how to re-program it, as it were, for his own ends."

Radley was grey-faced and terrified. "I didn't say that. You can't say I told you."

Giles set down the book he was holding with care. He was pleased to see that his hand didn't even shake. He forced himself to smile. "I wouldn't dream of it. There is one thing that puzzles me, though."

Radley was staring at him, wide-eyed, as if he didn't dare look away. "Oh? What's that?"

Giles tried to sound grieved rather than angry. "I don't understand why Quentin kept this from me. It's a splendid idea. Absolutely splendid."

Radley looked taken aback. Then his eyes narrowed suspiciously. "You can't mean that. I was given to understand that this vampire was a...a friend of yours?" He looked almost apologetic for making the suggestion. 

"Acquaintance," Giles snapped at him. "Friend is going too far."

"Yes, yes," Radley agreed quickly. "No offence, I hope?"

Giles shook his head. "None. And now that we understand each other better, how about filling me in on what you've discovered so far?" 

Radley looked dubious, but Giles kept his expression interested and neutral while maintaining his rather threatening stance, and in the end, Radley nodded, albeit a little sullenly.

"This is most irregular," he said, straightening his bowtie. "Mr Travers insisted I wasn't to say anything to you."

Yet you keep saying it, Giles thought. Aloud, he said, "That's because Mr Travers had some initial doubts about my priorities. But I've reassured him on that point. We are – as the Americans say – on the same page. Besides, Radley, as you so rightly pointed out, we're at war. We have to trust each other or the enemy has already won." 

That last seemed to get through to Radley. "You're right," he said. "Of course, you're right. I'll tell you what I've learned. There's an object called a Prokaryote Stone. I'm sure you'll find it very interesting." 

Giles smiled tightly. "I'm sure I will."

*

Giles took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He glanced at his watch – two thirty in the morning. He'd allowed Radley to escape fifteen minutes ago and had been half-expecting Travers to arrive ever since, along with Griffiths and a Council goon squad, but it hadn't happened yet.

Radley was knowledgeable, Giles had to give him that, and intuitive when it came to research, even when not in possession of all the facts. His discoveries, particularly as regards this Prokaryote Stone, had indeed proved both interesting and relevant. 

Giles wondered if he would have managed to uncover so much so quickly if he'd been allowed to conduct some genuine research of his own rather than chasing up Travers' blind alley. Probably not. 

At any rate, Radley was definitely on to something with this stone, though it didn't so much get rid of the trigger but get to the root of its causes. But provided those were understood, Giles could see that it would be a simple matter to recondition the subject to respond to a different trigger - one implanted by, say, Travers. 

Giles shook his head almost in admiration. It seemed there were no lengths to which Travers wouldn't go in pursuit of his war aims, even using vampires, the traditional enemy, as weapons.

Giles supposed he couldn't fault the man for that. If he were in Travers' position, could he really say that he would turn down flat an opportunity such as the one Giles had given him? He'd as good as presented Spike to Travers on a plate.

Ironic really, Giles thought. His motives for betraying Spike to the Council weren't that far apart from Travers' motives for wanting to seize the First's weapon for himself. Defeat the enemy. Protect the Slayer line. 

And yet there was poor Robson, disgraced for being honest, and Norah and Molly, used as blood donors to feed that same vampire.

Giles grimaced. Perhaps, in view of his exchanges with De Souza, he was only fooling himself in believing that his methods and Travers' were miles apart, but he hoped he would never sink that low. 

He put his glasses back on, closed the book in front of him and rose to his feet. Still no sign of Griffiths with an arrest warrant. It was possible that Radley had been too scared to admit to Travers that he'd told Giles everything. If so, another long day of pretending to acquiesce in Travers' unconscionable scheme loomed on the morrow. He should get some sleep. 

As he walked towards the door, Giles felt that faint, almost imperceptible, tremor in the earth again. This time, he was certain he hadn't imagined it – a dire warning, if any more were needed, that the First was far from beaten.

His hand was on the door when it flew open. Giles jumped back, fists raised, but dropped them hurriedly and hid them behind his back.

"Why are you ignoring me?" Annabelle's voice wobbled. Her lower lip was wobbling too. Dressed in borrowed pyjamas and dressing gown that were rather too big for her, she looked very young, and very scared.

Giles put his head out into the corridor and listened, but there was no sign of pursuit hot on Annabelle's heels. The building was shrouded in its usual night time gloom. Even so, he couldn't risk blowing his rather scanty cover. Annabelle didn't strike him as someone who would hold up well under pressure. 

Giles gave her a cool look. "What are you doing here at this hour? You should be asleep in your room."

Annabelle flinched at his disapproving tone. "I'm not tired. Anyway, Miss Chalmers said you'd been in here all day, so I thought I'd come and look just in case, and…and…" Her face crumpled and a single tear slipped down her cheek.

"And what?" Giles kept his voice brusque. 

"I'm scared," Annabelle said, miserably. "You said you'd help us. Why aren't you helping us?"

Giles gave her a severe look. "You've no cause for complaint, young lady. I've brought you here, where you'll be safe."

Annabelle glanced over her shoulder. "But they're going to send me away. Some place in the Cotswolds, they said, and I don't even know where that is. Is it abroad?"

Giles rolled his eyes. The ignorance of the young these days. "Of course not. It's only an hour or so from London. In Gloucestershire, in fact. The Watchers' Council has a summer retreat there. It's being used as a safe house."

Annabelle looked a little relieved, but not much. "But I don't want to go."

Giles could understand her reluctance. "I'm afraid it's not up to you. These decisions are made in your best interests, Annabelle. You have to abide by them."

Annabelle's shoulders slumped. "That's what Mr Travers said."

I'm sure he did, Giles thought. "Well, there's nothing to talk about, then. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm very busy."

Annabelle's face acquired a mulish look. "But I still don't understand. If it's in my best interests, why isn't it in Molly's? And Norah's," she added, as an afterthought. 

Giles's brain scrambled to think of an answer, but nothing came to mind.

"I miss Molly," Annabelle went on. "I never met anyone like her before. She's fun. She does what she likes and she doesn't care what anyone thinks. But they won't even let me see her."

"Mr Travers would tell you there's a good reason for that," Giles said, but Annabelle wasn't listening. 

"Lydia told me she's ill with the flu, and Norah, and Mr Robson. She said they've quarantined them so no one else can get it."

Ah, Giles thought, so that's the party line, is it? "Sounds very sensible to me." 

"But I've tried calling Molly's mobile and she doesn't answer." Annabelle was becoming more and more agitated. "Anyway, shouldn't _we_ be in quarantine in case we're infectious too?"

"I..." Giles began, but at that moment, the door at the other end of the library flew open to admit Travers and his entire entourage. Lydia Chalmers was among them, but there was no sign of Radley. 

"Ah, Annabelle." Travers sounded very displeased. " _There_ you are. Not bothering Mr Giles, I hope?"

Annabelle shrank back against Giles's desk. "No, Mr Travers. I swear."

"I'd rather you didn't," Travers said. "Please do what you've been told instead and go back to your room. In fact, if you can't be trusted to obey a simple instruction, I'm afraid I'll have to insist that you remain there until an escort for your transfer to the Cotswolds becomes available." 

Annabelle had gone very pale, but from somewhere she found the courage to stand her ground. "I don't want to go." 

Travers frowned. "Hmm, I can see that certain associations have not been beneficial to you, young lady. Griffiths?"

The ubiquitous Griffiths emerged from the group behind Travers. "If you'll come with me, miss."

But Annabelle grabbed hold of Giles's arm. "I won't." She turned pleading eyes on him. "Mr Giles, help me!"

Giles's eyes met Travers' over Annabelle's head. The coldness in Travers's gaze chilled him to the bone. He could almost feel the thin ice under his feet breaking up. He shrugged off Annabelle's clutching hands.

"Do what you're told," he snapped at her. 

She flinched again, eyes gone huge and tear filled. At the same moment, Griffiths reached her, seized her upper arm and turned her gently but firmly towards the door. 

"Best to listen to the gentleman, miss."

"Please," Annabelle said, but Giles shook his head. 

She was crying as Griffiths frogmarched her past Travers and the others, and Giles saw a fleeting look of distress on Lydia Chalmers' face, quickly smoothed away. It seemed he wasn't the only one to find the scene upsetting. 

Travers waited until the library door swung closed behind Griffiths. 

"Well, that was rather distasteful," Travers said. "The sooner we get her out of here and away from certain influences the better."

There was a murmur of assent from the entourage, though Giles noticed Lydia didn't join it. He cleared his throat. "Were you looking for me, Quentin?"

"What?" Travers feigned surprise. "Oh yes, I was in fact. How's the research going?"

Giles kept his expression neutral. "Rather as you might expect, I would imagine. However, I believe Radley has done better. This Prokaryote Stone, for instance…."

But Travers interrupted him. "Yes, Radley's kept me informed." He let the sentence hang in the air for a moment. 

Giles remained blank-faced. "Of course."

Travers' cold eyes narrowed. "At any rate, that's why I'm here. We've acquired a Prokaryote Stone, and we thought we might put it to the test immediately."

Giles stared. "Immediately, but…."

"Why yes," Travers said, blandly. "Didn't I tell you? The vampire is awake."


End file.
